"A natural wish," Said the authorities; "and sure enough HE WAS of the old stock--the last descendant-- And it would cost no more to bury him Under the old crack'd tombstone, with its scutcheons, Than in the common ground." So, graciously, The boon was granted, and he died content. And now the pauper's funeral had set forth, And the bell toll'd--not many strokes, nor long-- Pauper's allowance. He was coming home. But while the train was yet a good way off-- The workhouse burial train--I stopp'd to look Upon the scene before me; and methought Oh! that some gifted painter could behold And give duration to that living picture, So rich in moral and pictorial beauty, If seen arightly by the spiritual eye As with the bodily organ! The old tomb, With its quaint tracery, gilded here and there With sunlight glancing through the o'er-arching lime, Far flinging its cool shadow, flickering light-- Our greyhair'd sexton, with his hard grey face, (A living tombstone!) resting on his mattock By the low portal; and just over right, His back against the lime-tree, his thin hands Lock'd in each other--hanging down before him As with their own dead weight--a tall slim youth With hollow hectic cheek, and pale parch'd lip, And labouring breath, and eyes upon the ground Fast rooted, as if taking measurement Betime for his own grave. I stopp'd a moment, Contemplating those thinkers--youth and age-- Mark'd for the sickle; as it seem'd--the _unripe_ To be first gather'd. Stepping forward, then, Down to the house of death, in vague expectance, I sent a curious, not unshrinking, gaze. There lay the burning brain and broken heart, Long, long at rest: and many a Thing beside That had been life--warm, sentient, busy life-- Had hunger'd, thirsted, laugh'd, wept, hoped, and fear'd-- Hated and loved--enjoy'd and agonized. Where of all this, was all I look'd to see? The mass of crumbling coffins--some belike (The undermost) with their contents crush'd in, Flatten'd, and shapeless. Even in this damp vault, With more completeness could the old Destroyer Have done his darkling work? Yet lo! I look'd Into a small square chamber, swept and clean, Except that on one side, against the wall, Lay a few fragments of dark rotten wood, And a small heap of fine, rich, reddish earth Was piled up in a corner. "How is this?" In stupid wonderment I ask'd myself, And dull of apprehension. Turning, then, To the old sexton--"Tell me, friend," I said, "Here should be many coffins--Where are they? And"--pointing to the earth-heap--"what is that?" He raised his eyes to mine with a strange look And strangely meaning smile; and I repeated-- (For not a word he spoke)--my witless question.